My goal for 2015 is to “literally cannot even” more than I can even. I want this year to be so dope that decades from now, I’ll still be talking about what a stellar revolution around the sun it was for me.

I want to see things I’ve never seen before.

I want to see the things that I’ve seen every day differently.

I want to see something that’s always been there but that I’ve failed to notice.

I want to see possibility everywhere.

I want to see the ghosts that have haunted me for years, always hovering in my periphery.

I want every day to be filled with beautiful music, particularly of the melodramatic variety that will inspire me to clench my fists, close my eyes, and passionately raise my voice.

I want fist-pump worthy riffs that make me shake my rump.

I want chord progressions, hovering on F#.

I want to cry over god damn perfect finger-picking of a mandolin.

I want a drum solo to make me feel like I’m made of static.

I want to lose my hearing temporarily moshing at a rock concert.

I want to vibrate for days.

I want to read words that challenge me.

I want to be infuriated by prose, something deep within me ignited by a well-placed em-dash or a hesitant semi-colon.

I want a sentence to make me groan, anguished, as I bite my lip until it bleeds, wondering if I’ll ever get the relief of a full-stop.

I want to reach the last page, close the book, and open up again to page xxi.

Only fluffy pillows on my bed. Life is too short for linens so cheap you’d rather sleep cold and uncovered. I want another down comforter.

I want my bed to be my throne, from which I can rule the world even when my immune system malfunctions and I can’t lift my legs.

I want faster internet and stronger coffee.

I want pens with slick ink, notebooks with thick paper and a heating pad that never grows cold.

2015 is going to be the year of healing my body.

I want clothes that comfort.

No more indents from bra straps.

No more itching from detergent.

No more plucking or prodding or poking.

No more skin picking (okay, maybe just a little) and no more denying my pain.

I’m hanging a sign on my ribcage that says “Pain Welcome,” a cup of tea waiting and a truly compassionate listening ear. The pain has been talking for years, now I’m listening.

Fuck bras!

Fuck pantyhose that make my ovaries clench.

Fuck socks.

I live alone now, aside from my dog, but she doesn’t give a shit if I put on Twin Peaks and wear a ball gown in the living room because I found it in my closet and want to wear it one last time before it goes into the Goodwill bin. She isn’t judging me for scribbling ideas on coffee filters at 5 a.m. while my coffee percolates. All she cares about is getting a corner of toast.

There’s no one to judge me for having the ER theme song as my ringtone.

No one to tell me I missed a spot trying to cover up my acne scars.

No one to tell me I missed a spot shaving / trimming my unmentionable topiary.

No one to say, “those jeans are looking a little snug.”

I can make a side table out of books and rest my 26-hour-old coffee atop it, tuck my feet up beneath my own warmth and watch the seasons change.

They will — with or without me.

I can hang unworn pointe shoes beside my mirror, feel the soft silk of their unsewn ribbons.

I can box them up when it’s too painful to see pink satin every morning while I put on my face to face the day.

I don’t have to paint my eyelashes black anymore, make those charcoal lines around my eyes to prove that I have the patience.

I don’t have to stain my lips to look just-kissed.

I don’t have to give my cheeks color when there isn’t any.

I don’t have to make my hair fall across my face just-so.

I can walk through this year unkempt and be a gorgeous mess, a beautiful wreck.

If you see me, expect big sneezes. No more hiding the fact that I am a body, not that I have one but that I am one. This body aches, and I’ll moan and groan when I damn well please. I’ll stuff my face into a pillow, scream low and loud, and then get back to work. I’ll drink my tea so hot it burns my tongue, and for a moment I’ll forget the ache of tangled organs. This is the year I learn to live with pain, not in it. I’ll step outside of it every chance I get, even if it keeps insisting it be allowed to hold my hand. Like a parent and child in a crosswalk, I’m not sure if I’m leading or following, not sure if I’m pulling or being pulled along, but this is the year I intend to find out.

No more feeling guilty about standing in the middle of my kitchen at 2 p.m. in nothing but my booty shorts, screaming “Like a Prayer” at the top of my range and eating cornflakes out of a thrift store mug that says “#1 Dad.”

I hereby decree that I will nap in the bathtub, not stepping out until I’m fully wrinkled and smelling of peach-mango. I will not blow dry my hair, just shake my head like a wet dog, flinging tiny droplets against the mirror.

In the looking glass where I used to leave notes for him in lipstick, I’ll leave affirmations for myself.

The walls behind my desk are covered in quotes from the greatest of literary minds, passages from books, lines from films — and even the occasional internet quote-find tagged on my tumblr with #ThisFuckingChangedMe

I will rise with the sun and the soft kisses of my dog, who has a tendency to try to lick boogers out of my nose like those mini turkey basters you use to get snot out of a baby’s nares. She doesn’t know what she’s doing, she’s a dog, but I love her enthusiasm. She commits fully to whatever she does.

This year I’m going to commit fully to whatever I do. I’m going to listen and speak with conviction. I’m not going to hang out with the people I love when I have the time, I’m going to make the time. I’m going to buy books instead of bread and sell my words with the knowledge that they are capable of nourishing others.

This year I will not race through my days hoping to witness a miracle, hoping to catch a shimmering and stunning moment. I will make them.

I will be one.